


Power

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: April Showers Challenge 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-23
Updated: 2003-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:29:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Kinks come in the night. I blame <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/rugbytackle">you people</a> for this. Especially <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/keelywolfe">you</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Power

**Author's Note:**

> Kinks come in the night. I blame [you people](http://www.livejournal.com/users/rugbytackle) for this. Especially [you](http://www.livejournal.com/users/keelywolfe).

There was nothing like seeing a king bound and gagged. Not struggling, oh no. Too much pride. Too much dignity. Boromir would strip it away, piece by piece, until Aragorn lay bare beneath him. Moaning. A live mass of quivering flesh, excited tendons. And the most beautiful noises a man could make. And all because of what Boromir would do.

Sweat gleaned off the bound body and Boromir dipped a finger to taste the drops collecting on Aragorn's hairline. Aragorn squirmed at the contact, trying to feel. Boromir slapped his king's cock in punishment.

"Don't do that."

Aragorn nodded, relaxing some inner strength so that the king suddenly seemed a mere puddle of beauty, ready for Boromir's pleasure. A puddle with pressure points and sweet spots. A puddle that, unbound, could command the respect of an entire species. A puddle that, unbound, Boromir must bow to.

But the puddle was bound.

Boromir wasn't quite sure why Aragorn liked this so much, liked the hopelessness, like the lack of power. Lack of responsibility, perhaps, Boromir thought. Or maybe it was just the idea that he *could* surrender. That he had enough self-control to let another rule him. Perhaps.

Aragorn squirmed under Boromir's heavy gaze and looked away. Boromir's hand shot out and turned his king's face back to him. "If you wish to be able to find release tonight," he warned darkly, "then you will look at me. You will not turn away unless I bid you to. Do you understand?"

Aragorn nodded and his fearless eyes fixed themselves on Boromir's, almost as if in challenge. Boromir ignored it and stood from his crouch above his king. He stretched almost lazily and looked around. The two were alone, as they always were. It was a three month journey by foot from Parth Galen, the outer border of Gondor, to the White City itself. Gandalf had bid them well and let them go only four weeks before and Boromir looked forward to many nights above his king. Once they reached Minas Tirith there would be no time for this. 'Tie me down,' Aragorn had said on their first night together and Boromir had obliged. He had never allowed himself to consider that it might last longer than their journey and he felt a surge of anger at the thought of losing Aragorn. Losing him to a political marriage. To the responsibilities of a monarch. To the City he was sworn to protect.

Perhaps that was what Aragorn wished to leave behind during their nights together. Perhaps even Aragorn grew morose at the thought of ending their passion. But they both knew it would have to happen. No matter what they forgot when they were in the persona of captor and captive, Aragorn was rightful king and would have to take a throne, with everything that came with the title. And Boromir would have to stand aside and let it happen.

Anger growing, Boromir returned to his crouch. "Do you long for it, Aragorn," he hissed, pulling apart his king's undershirt roughly. Used to such treatment, it parted easily, letting Boromir see his king's peaked nipples and rapidly rising and falling chest. "Do you long for a time when I will be forced to kneel and surrender? A time when you may lord over me all you wish, for it will be your right and my sworn acceptance?" Boromir absently played with the hair on his king's chest as he mused. "A time when all you would have to say would be 'knees' and I would be forced to obeisance, forced to bow to a man I have brought low? Do you hope for such a time to come soon, that you may be rid of me? That all you would have to say would be 'leave' and I may never see you again? Or do you like it, like being caged? Being commanded? By a mere steward, no doubt. A mere servant to the king. A mere advisor. Descendant of the man who denied your forefather the throne of Gondor. Do you seek to revenge on that, my liege? For I can think of many ways you could do such a thing. One of them," Boromir paused and studied the man panting under him, who's eyes were wide with fear and passion, "one of them would be to break my heart. Do you seek to do that? For it would be mighty easy. You would merely have to break your bonds - I know you can do it, I didn't tie them that tight - and grab Anduril from where it lays by your feet. You would call insult on me, call me traitor. Call me foolish. Do you seek to do such a thing, Aragorn?" This time Boromir didn't acknowledge the fervant shaking of his king's head. He undid the rest of Aragorn's coverings, raking his eyes over his king's stretched body. Valar, but he was beautiful. "Would you allow your Queen to do this, Aragorn? To see you so vulnerable, so open, so ready? What would your beloved elf do if you asked her to chain you to the bed and have her way with you? Would she be as good as me? Would she make you beg? Would you come for her as beautifully as you come for me? Or have you already done this with her?" Boromir's hands strayed into the hair protecting Aragorn's genitals. "Was it she would taught you this, this perfect surrender? Was it she who first brought you to your knees? To conquer a king. Even an elf, I would think, would not be able to resist that, even if she did not care for you.

"Don't look at me like that, Aragorn. You have told me she loves you and I must take you at your word. But continue to be so harsh, my dear, and you shall find no pleasure in this night. Ah, that's better. Relax for me, Aragorn. Relax! Else this shall hurt, and we have far to march tomorrow. There are few things worse than death, but I suppose trying to walk with torn rectal tissue might be one of them. You're lucky, actually. My first lover made me crawl. Hands and knees, head up to suck him whenever he felt like it. Backside planted firmly in the air so he could take me whenver he wished. I killed him. Later, though. A silly matter of honor and he made the mistake of challenging me. He thought that since we were lovers I would not make that final stroke. He thought wrong. You see, Aragorn, he tamed me. And I couldn't have that. He made me want. He made me beg. I have let no one else come close to that since. Until you. You could make me beg. And you do make me want. You make me...feel. Feel like I haven't felt since I killed Damrod. And I'm not sure I like that. You're too close to my heart, Aragorn. I fear you would wound me. Not knowingly, of course not. I do not think so low of you as to pressume that you seek my pain. But even a word said in jest may wound irreparably." Boromir shook his head in denial and grasped the base of Aragorn's erection with a sudden force. He squeezed hard, watching Aragorn pant, knowing that it was all because of him. Everything that happened to Aragorn was because of him. And no one else. Aragorn was his. His king. His savior. His friend. His companion. Coming to help *his* City. His Gondor. "Mine," he growled.

Aragorn grunted something that might have been, "Yours", but Boromir paid it no attention except to get rid of his own clothes and lay down on top of his king, pressing his lips to Aragorn's. It was an interesting feeling, kissing a gagged man. The salty taste of sweat-soaked linen, dry bruised lips. Sometimes the tongue might slip through slightly, enough to make certains parts of Boromir swell in contentment. He placed his hands on Aragorn's shoulders, pushing him even more into the dirt, and began to lick his way across his king's chest. After months of this, he knew exactly how to make his king moan in passion, in pain. In lust and fear. How to make his king come using only his tongue. An interesting talent and one he would have to try again on some other night. He had plans for his bound lover.

A lick was enough reduce Aragorn to shivering groans and his essence leaked ever out of his erection. Boromir caught it on his king and spread it over Aragorn's chapped lips and then licked it from there. A beautiful plate for a beautiful offering.

The hollow of Aragorn's stomach was Boromir's favorite thing about his king. The smooth taut flesh over muscle and bone and the hint of hair going down to the king's cock and balls. Boromir wanted to lick him all over, but would have to be contented with his king's stomach. Aragorn was too close to completion as it was.

"I'm not going to claim you." Boromir announced, relishing the hint of panic creaping back into Aragorn's eyes. "I'm going to get you off with my hand, spread it on me, and then make you suck yourself off me. How does that sound?" Aragorn closed his eyes, their signal for acceptance, and Boromir grinned. Aragorn was his. Only his. To do with as he pleased.

Aragorn's cock was red in the moonlight as Boromir's fist closed over it for the second time that night, this time stroking, this time loving. Playing with his king's balls, foreskin, bumps and veins that made him truly Aragorn. Boromir could do this all night. Perhaps one day he should. Maybe in Minas Tirith...

And then Aragorn was coming, jerking into Boromir's hand, coating it with the hot fluid. Trying not to let a drop slip away, Boromir covered his cock with his fist, spreading the come. Aragorn's gagged was ripped away by Boromir's clean hand and a cock shoved insistantly against the king's suddenly closed lips.

"Lick me clean," Boromir ordered and Aragorn parted his lips slowly to let his tongue dart out, tasting himself on his lover. Aragorn sucked the head experimentally, trying to blend the two tastes together. Boromir moaned at his king's ministrations. "Yes, Aragorn, milk me. Take my gift. But first take yours." And Aragorn seemed eager to do so. Boromir came with a grunt a few moments later. He did not withdraw, forcing Aragorn to swallow every drop of him. Then, finally, when he felt the last tremor disappear, he disentangled himself from his king, cleaned himself up, and dressed himself. Aragorn had already let himself out of the bounds and stood, surveying their surroundings. Then he was pressed against his steward, kissing him to the edge of passion.

"Never think I don't love you," Aragorn's voice was harsh and commanding and Boromir shivered, remembering that above all the man was his king. "Never think I will throw you away. You may mark me as you wish, but never doubt me."

"Yes, my liege." Boromir allowed himself a smile as he leaned into his king, relishing the way they fit together almost perfectly.

"Don't call me that," Aragorn admonished. "We are still far from Minas Tirith."


End file.
